


May I Request: A Less Psychotic Trainer?

by uglywombat



Series: May I Request...? [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Banter, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Mild Language, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26282248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uglywombat/pseuds/uglywombat
Summary: Life under the regime of one Steve Rogers, aka, everyone’s favourite blonde Captain, isn’t sunshine and roses. It’s kale and spirulina. And a whole lot of sexy inappropriate thoughts.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Original Female Character(s), Steve Rogers/Reader, Steve Rogers/You
Series: May I Request...? [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1908220
Comments: 18
Kudos: 94





	May I Request: A Less Psychotic Trainer?

This is what death feels like.

Above you, the industrial fan slowly comes into focus as your chest heaves painfully. You can’t breathe. Waves of nausea roll violently as you force back the pathetic excuse of a breakfast you had forced down. 

You’re going to die on the gym floor of the compound and nobody is going to save you. 

In your periphery, you can just make out the blurry figure of Steve Rogers as he kneels beside you. You can practically feel the dramatic eye roll as you whine mournfully, the stitch in your side intensifying as you try to catch your breath. 

“I’m dying,” you croak and wheeze.

Steve does that sigh, the one that simultaneously makes you weak at the knees and want to punch him in his perfect jaw. “You’re fine. Get up and do another thirty burpees, soldier.” 

Except you’re not a soldier. You’re a data analyst forced upon the Avengers by SHIELD for “compliance” reasons. Your idea of a workout is making the most of the online Black Friday sales or walking to the corner store for a date with Ben and Jerry’s.

The muscles in your calves, or what you think might be your calves, instantly cramp at the thought of doing more of the hellish jumps. You blindly reach around you searching for some kind of weapon to destroy the golden menace kneeling over you. “I can’t, Steve, I’m dying. I can’t breathe. I can’t get up. You’re going to have to carry me to the showers and give a girl a hand.” Steve scoffs and grips your hand, pulling you up. 

On the bleachers watching you cry out like a banshee in pain, Clint and Nat watch on intently. Beers in hand, and yes it is six a.m., they’ve sat for the last two hours watching their Captain literally torture you in the gym. They’ve observed you weep over the rowing machine, sob weakly as Steve forced you to lunge around the perimeter of the gym.

Your knees wobble before you inelegantly collapse back onto the floor in a heap. “You murdered me, Rogers. I’m going to have you charged with murder and sentenced to life, you bastard.” 

You can practically feel the blonde Captain roll his eyes, his hands resting on his stupidly thin hips as he stands over you. “You’re not dying, you’re just very unfit and unhealthy.”

Steve would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t enjoying pushing your buttons. You’d entered the gym in an absolute pissy mood given the early start, the new diet he had insisted on you trying out, and the bright smirk on his perfect pout. You fought back on every command and he hated to admit it, but it excited him. 

Now, watching you pant and dramatically splayed out on the floor was flooding his imagination with a flurry of indecent and downright filthy thoughts. 

“Hit the showers and meet me in the conference room to go over those financial reports.”

You can only watch on as the bastard saunters off towards the showers, and your audience takes in the curtain call from the bleachers. 

Somehow, you manage to pick yourself up and hobble to the showers. As much as you hadn’t wanted to give Steve the satisfaction of seeing you in pain it’s near impossible.

You are miserable, living on a diet of kale and spinach. Your morning coffee has been replaced with a smoothie made on green vomit, something rotten called spirulina. Late-night tacos and sneaky beers in the medical wing during “compulsory training” have been replaced with almond butter and celery sticks.

Ordinarily, you wouldn’t be so quick to give in to “the demands of the big man” however you want to prove Steve wrong.

But god damn it, you are hangry and horny. It’s hard to ignore the very evident trickle of arousal on your inner thigh as you clumsily stumble in the shower, peeling your sweaty clothes from your body. 

The water is hot and soothing on your poor tortured body and you all but melt in the steam.

Despite your utter and deep-seated loathing for the man you call Captain, you still want to shag the bones out of his body. 

You can vividly remember that heady cinnamon scent as he pinned you to the floor of the gym, his thick thigh seated at the juncture of your own. If Cint and Nat had not been present…

It’s easy to imagine rubbing yourself stupid against the strong muscle as you fight to control the messy kiss, your hand wanders between the juncture of your thighs. You stifle a moan with your hand as you work your finger over your sensitive clit.

Filthy images of Steve kneeling before you in the shower, feasting on you as he grips your ass tightly with his large hands flood fast and furiously. You can feel his silky golden locks between your fingers as you fight to control his tempo, the pressure of his tongue as he teases your lips. The heat of your impending orgasm is quickly rising, a sure thing when you often think of Steve, as you imagine him languidly fucking you with his tongue. 

The precipice is so close, just within reach, your clit expanding as you furiously work your fingers when…

“Stop wasting water and get to work!”

“You motherfucker!” you screech at Steve, slamming your head against the tiles of the shower. 

One ruined orgasm later, your legs feel like jelly as you mindlessly stare over the financial documents before you. Concentrating on the figures is difficult, your stomach angrily protesting and a certain blonde Captain giving you a knowing smirk. 

The pencil in your hand creaks as you squeeze it, your eyes locked on Steve as he slowly licks his lips. That perfectly pink tongue wetting his beautiful plump pout. Does he taste like the tar-like black coffee he’s been throwing back for the last hour? Is it bitter or is there maybe a hint of sweetness from the apple he ate?

Your mouth runs dry as his hands drum lightly on the table, his long agile fingers keeping a steady beat as the fine muscles in his hand move. Are veins on a hand a turn on? Oh hell yes they are. Once again, you find your mind running wild with filthy images of his hands working Mastery of Magic on your exposed thighs as you ride his… 

**_Snap._ **

A twinkle in his eye makes your stomach flip flop and for a split second, you forget the ongoing war between you. 

Thank god he is called away, gifting you the golden opportunity to disappear before lunch for a quick fumble between your legs before lunch. 

And lunch is…

Well. 

On your plate sits a lettuce leaf, and thinly sliced onion and cucumbers. There is no dressing. Just… salad. 

This does not spark joy. This sparks a raging fire of hatred and destruction. You would murder an Oompa Loompa for one measly Starburst.

Pushing the plate away, because quite frankly starvation is a better life choice than this, you sulkily lean your head onto the table. Eyes fixated on the butter knife beside you, your thoughts focused on the satisfaction level it would bring to stab a super soldier, you barely register the scrape of the chair beside you. 

“Is that seriously what Steve has you eating?”

You want to cry, but the thought of Steve walking in on you crying over a green leaf is too depressing so you just nod your head. 

Bucky sighs and pats your head gently. “Come with me.”

That is how you find yourself sitting in a cherry red 1962 Ferrari 250 GTO demolishing a double patty cheeseburger with all the trimmings. 

The sounds coming out of your mouth are utterly salacious and even Bucky blushes as you groan, the salty-sweet combination of the brioche bun and fresh pickles an honest to god mouth orgasm.

"Slow down, we're not trying to win a marathon."

“Speak for yourself,” you groan lustfully, mouth full to the brim with angels and sweet and spicy Sriracha. “I’ve been starved and abused by Captain Golden Pants. I’ve literally forgotten what it is like to feel joy and happiness. The taste of real, honest to Thor food has long been forgotten on my tastebuds.”

Bucky scoffs, wiping his stubble of any food remnants with the vintage Captain America paper napkin. “Doll, I hate to tell you, it’s been two days. Are you absolutely sure you want to keep putting yourself through this just to prove a point?”

You sigh, your fingers fretting over the napkin, Steve’s cartoon face sitting in shreds on your lap. “I’m not going to let that asshole get the better of me.”

Long fingers caress the nape of your neck and you look over the steely soulful eyes watching you carefully. 

“Why don’t you just admit that you have feelings and stop torturing yourself?”

You scoff. “Yeah right. The guy can’t even look at me without having a conniption. Do you honestly think me laying out my feelings is going to make this whole South Korea/North Korea situation any less awkward?”

Bucky’s smile is frustratingly all-knowing and calming and if the burger wasn’t so delicious and the car wasn’t so disgustingly expensive you would throw it in his perfectly chiselled face. 

“ I'm not used to being this sore, Bucky. What kind of psychopath tortures a poor, defenseless... ”   
  


“What the hell are you doing?” 

You cringe as you hear the telltale clomp of Steve’s boots on the concrete floor only to be met by the wild eyes of Tony, his hands clawing at the glass window before you. 

“You’re eating garbage in my classic 1962 Ferrari? Do you know how much this thing cost?” The billionaire industrialist literally screams at you as Bucky drags you out of the car through the opposite door. “You will pay you, cretins!” The threat echoes through the garage.

Stumbling over a rogue Gungnir you nearly lose your box of fries, before Bucky throws you into the elevator. 

“Who leaves a magical spear lying around?” You gasp, completely out of breath as the doors slowly close before both. 

Freedom is but a mere breath away when Steve hurls the doors open and pins you against the wall, the box of fries landing at your feet with a sickening thud. 

“My fries!”

Bucky sniggers, leaning back against the wall of the cart as it begins to ascend, watching on in delight as you and Steve stand toe to toe.

“I leave you for an hour and you’re already destroying all the hard work I’ve put into training you to be a worthwhile agent.” His voice vibrates with a lady boner-inducing resonance that goes directly to your core. Musky, heady cinnamon invades your senses as he cages you against the wall. 

Your breath is shaky as you fight the warring emotions of jumping him right there and then, regardless of who your audience is, or slapping his face. “Well, Captain,” you smirk as a visible shiver runs down his spine at the epithet, “I’m no longer taking part in your Biggest Loser bullshit. You can take your kale and shove it up your a…”

A large hand covers your mouth, the scent of pencil shavings heavy on his skin. It takes every ounce of your self-control not to lick his palm and drop to your knees.

“Okay,” Bucky quickly intervenes and pulls Steve away from you, “that’s enough Zoolander and Hansel. You both need to cool down before someone says something they can’t take back.”

Steve turns to Bucky. “How am I supposed to be an effective leader if my subordinate is immature, selfish, lazy…”

“Immature?” Your screech echoes through the elevator. “FRIDAY, stop the elevator and get Fury on the line.”

The elevator immediately stops, the ground beneath you shifting as the cables jolt violently.

“Doll,” Bucky warns softly standing in between you and the stupidly handsome Captain, “what are…”

“Fury speaking.” The rich voice fills the small space. 

“Director Fury, this is Agent I no longer want to be tortured by stupid old man Steve Rogers. May I request a less psychotic trainer?”

The air is thick with tension and silence, nobody daring to move or say anything whilst you wait for Fury to reply. 

And when he does, the whole world comes alive. The bastard laughs, a full-on belly chortle and slaps whatever furniture he has beside him before ending the call without an actual response.

Steve smirks, because Steve is a prick and you sulkily kick the floor at your feet. Your heart stops as he approaches you, the butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth smirk grating in you. 

“I will see you outside at 2000 hours for a ten-mile run. Bring a smile.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Feedback is always welcome :) 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr (https://imanuglywombat.tumblr.com) x


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